


She Airlocks, He Builds Galleons

by icedteainthebag



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-17
Updated: 2009-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/pseuds/icedteainthebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dana Scully, president of the Twelve Colonies, gets in hot water with Fleet Admiral Fox Mulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Airlocks, He Builds Galleons

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [](http://xf-pornbattle.livejournal.com/profile)[**xf_pornbattle**](http://xf-pornbattle.livejournal.com/). The prompt was: Admiral Mulder/President Scully, give me the room. And the room was given. This is total crackfic. Thanks to [](http://dashakay.livejournal.com/profile)[**dashakay**](http://dashakay.livejournal.com/) for getting me addicted to this show and for our weekend of win, this idea being a product of our martini-infused madness.

"Give me the room," Admiral Fox "Bill" Mulder says gruffly to the roomful of crew in the pilot's lounge. He knew President Scully was aboard the ship somewhere, but it surprised him to find her down in the hall playing Triad and sipping on some homemade distilled something-or-other. The last thing he needs is a drunken President Scully on his hands.

The room clears quickly and she stays, standing up at the table, her palm pressed flat against the surface. He takes a deep breath and suddenly feels the room get a little hotter. It must be his uniform, he tells himself. Frakkin' things trap heat like you wouldn't believe. His eyes travel over her frame, her dark blue suit hugging her figure, her red hair spilling over her shoulders, dark-rimmed glasses perched regally on her nose. And where she gets Manolo Blahniks in deep space he'll never know. She gives him an inquisitive look with a tilt of her head.

He's trying to be angry at her. He should be. He has to be.

"President Scully," he begins, lifting his chin as he walks up to her. He towers over her, yet she stands her ground.

"Admiral Mulder." Her voice is calm and smooth.

"I got wind of another unfortunate incident involving your inappropriate usage of the airlock."

She blinks at him. Her smile remains. "It's arguable that my usage actually was appropriate."

He sighs, staring into her intense blue eyes. He won't stand down. "You've got to stop airlocking my Gunmen."

"Don't worry, Bill," she says, her smile widening. She has the brightest teeth in the fleet. He wants to run his tongue across them. No, no he doesn't. "There're only two Gunmen left."

"There were only three to begin with," he snaps. She doesn't flinch. "What did Lieutenant Frohike do to possibly deserve an airlocking?"

Her eyes flash. "He called me a chickadee," she says firmly. "Now you listen to me, Bill. I've been called a lot of things in my day, but I refuse to be objectified based on my gender and/or physical appearance. It'll be a cold day on nuke-ravaged Caprica when I stand for that."

"Frak, Laura," he groans, shaking his head.

"Who's Laura?" she asks sharply.

"Frak it. Dana. President Scully." He's nearly chest to chest with her now. "I'm telling you now as the commander of this ship, you don't run this place. Never have, never will. I won't lose another member of my crew due to irresponsible, rampant airlocking."

"Frak me," she snaps.

He stares at her in shock. His pulse begins to race. "Excuse me, Madam President?"

"Frak me, Bill," she says, ripping open her blazer. Buttons pop everywhere. "Frak me hard. Right here in this hall."

"Oh...Gods," he stutters.

"Did I not make myself clear?" she growls, pushing her skirt down her legs. Her black bra and panties are definitely not fleet issue.

"Colonel Tigh?" he calls out meekly.

She lays back on the table and peeks back up at him. "What are you waiting for?" she demands.

"Are you a Cylon?" he asks, his voice wavering. Maybe that's why she's acting so erratic. Maybe she's a Cylon who wants to make her own hybrid baby. Or maybe it's the chamalla. But she looks so frakking good spread out on that table. God, it's been five space years since Admiral Mulder got laid.

"Gods damn it," she practically shouts, sitting up. "Take off your frakkin' pants."

He sheds them. She lets out an exasperated sigh. "The shorts too, Bill."

He pulls down his shorts and is surprised to find his little admiral extremely excited by her direct orders. He's never liked being ordered around before, but this fiery redhead is different to him. It's different. Special.

"Now," she says with her smile. Again with the smiling. "Frak me so hard they'll hear me in the CIC."

She shimmies out of her panties and lays back down. He stands between her spread legs and his cock grazes presidential pussy. She's a real redhead. Who knew.

"That's it," she purrs.

"If I frak you," he says firmly, trying to keep his composure, "No more airlocking."

"Bill," she murmurs, looking demurely into his eyes. "You can't truly mean that."

"I mean it. No more airlocking. Say it. Then I'll frak you. Agreed?"

"I don't negotiate with terrorists." She spreads her legs further.

"I'm not a frakkin' terrorist!"

"Fine," she sighs. "No more airlocking."

He slides into her--she's hot, tight, wet, and they groan together when he's finally buried deep, her thighs snug on his hips.

It's at this point that Admiral Mulder soon loses whatever respectable Colonial resistance he has left. He will, in fact, frak President Scully so hard the whole CIC will hear it. But they won't mention it, they'll just look at the two of them funny when they walk in the room together later. That's his crew.

He starts thrusting harder, faster. She feels so frakking amazing, every stroke sending chills down his spine as he watches her start to writhe and moan. She holds onto the edges of the table, locking her legs around his waist, making all sorts of increasingly audible unpresidential noises. He answers her with his own Admiral grunts and groans, authoritatively primal.

"That's right, Bill," she moans, her voice getting louder. "Obliterate this naughty Cylon base star."

"Frak," he groans, a tingle shooting to his toes. He is determined to do just that. He'll obliterate it, he'll blow it into a billion tiny shards of motherfrakkin' space dust. She smiles and squeezes his cock. He holds onto her thighs and gives it to her harder, the table shifting under the force, squeaking inches across the floor.

"You gonna frak this President?" she pants.

"Oh yeah," he moans. "I'm going to frak your fat, lazy ass."

"Frakkin' Admiral Mulder," she breathes, "staging another...military...coup d'état...throw me in the brig, Bill...shackle me up...oh, I'm gonna..."

He comes hard. He loves throwing people in the brig, more than anything, more than building model galleons in his spare time. She comes at exactly the same time, perfect synchrony, like they are meant for each other, no matter what happens, forever and ever.

"Oh my Gods," she sighs. "Thank you, Admiral. That was exactly what I needed."

"To cure your cancer?" he asks, breathless, still buried between her sexy legs, her feet still planted in her sexy heels.

She furrows her brow. "No. I just really needed a good frak."

"So Say We All," he says.

She grins. "So Say We All."


End file.
